Endings are Enough
by activedutysloth
Summary: "The writer is one who, embarking upon a task, does not know what to do." As she learns to live and to love, Santana tries to write down everything about Brittany. But some ideas, and people are so abstract that they cannot be tied down and solidified.
1. Living

Glee is not mine. The summary quote is not mine, it belongs to Donald Barthelme. All that is mine are the thoughts put into words.

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><p>You know how when you first get a hardcover book how perfect it is?<p>

The jacket is bright and shiny, the pages are a pure white, no creases, perfectly crisp. When you open that book for the first time, you are the first person to flip that page.

You are also the first person to tarnish its perfection.

The oils on your hands taint the pages, the once crisp edges of the pages become fuzzy and discolored. No matter how hard you fight it, the pages get dog eared… We kill our books. We have that innate ability to destroy perfect things.

A book that once held promise for adventure ends up unfit to read unless you are hiding in your home with all the windows shut. Everything pure is dirtied, soiled, ruined with time. Save for the dust jacket. It seems to be the one thing that people value.

Some use it to attempt to protect the book, and others take it off immediately and store it to the side so that there will always be at least one reminder of how perfect and promising the book once was. It doesn't matter.

Either way you one day become overwhelmed with immeasurable sadness when you realize that the bindings are loose, the pages are yellowed and tattered… Your heart breaks when you realize that it's time to move on. Even if you have the memories evoked by that perfect dust jacket, it still hurts.

It's a metaphor Brittany. But you already knew that. You were the best at metaphors and malapropisms, anything that let you show off how sneakily smart you were.

I think you delighted in the fact that no one really understood how intelligent you were or that at times you were actually insulting them.

I loved that about you.

I loved a lot of things about you.

You weren't my first love. Not many people know this, but books were the first love of my life.

Books are many people's love.

That's because to read, or to write for that matter, is to love.

Isn't it?

I really don't know. You probably have a better idea of this than I do. You've always had the best ideas about abstract things like love and such. While I sit, and write long winding metaphors about my life spent loving you, you are out living.

That's the biggest difference between us I guess.

I live to write.

You live to live.

I live through my writing.

You live through life.

You have become the great love story of my life. We've been through it all you and I. Now here we are.

I sit at my desk, in the coffee shop, on the subway, who knows where and I write about you and all the fantastic adventures you are having as the cat knocks tea all over my papers, the barista keeps serving the same burnt coffee , and the bag lady knocks my pen and makes it run off the page.

You simply live.

It takes so many words to describe me and so few to describe you. It seems odd doesn't it? That the day to day happenings of the most extraordinary girl on the planet can be summed up in three words? Whereas here I am, an undisputedly simple and ordinary person of no great merit or significance who takes up whole chunks of precious text.

It won't matter in the end. Because in the end it isn't about how many words people can use to describe you. It's about the number of thoughts and memories people have about you. Perhaps you have so few words to your name because you truly are indescribable. An abstract concept in yourself that no one can really seem to wrap their mind around.

It suits you. People will remember you and all the things you did, all the memories you shared. I will be remembered as the girl who used too many words.

I disagree. I feel there aren't enough words to describe you adequately .

Nobody could fully capture your spirit.

Your heart.

Your joy.

Your love.

But if you allow me, I will try.

Because a story like yours begs to be written.

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><p><strong>AN: **Reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated. Bear in mind that this only the intro. There is much more to come. This story will alternate between first and third person with each chapter.


	2. Flowers

"Children in a family are like flowers in a bouquet: there's always one determined to face in an opposite direction from the way the arranger desires." - Marcelene Cox

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><p>Her warm umber eyes scanned the room with mild interest as she rocked impatiently on her heels. At eight years old, Santana had already inherited the impatient tics of her parents; eye rolls, and nervous rocking were two of them. Already she was quite unimpressed with her third grade classroom. The pastel colors were far too babyish and the children seemed to be of little intelligence, tossing paper balls and catapulting pencils in clear view of the teacher who was either very blind or completely unsuited for her profession<p>

"Hey sweetie! Aren't you precious? How about we go sit down and practice coloring so that your mommy can go to work okay?"

Her tiny brow furrowed as she stared down the teacher, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. "No. I don't need to practice coloring. I know how to color. I'm in third grade, not kindergarten," she said, her tone indignant as she eyed up the woman kneeling in front of her.

Mrs. Jones had permanently frizzy hair that she tried to tame by wearing in a long braid down her back. She was too old for the look and when mixed with the streaks of grey in her unextrordinary brown hair, and portly frame, she looked more like a typical bag lady, more suited for a subway station than a classroom. Her southern lilt was just as out of place in Ohio as Santana's tanned skin and Santana decided that there would be room for only one oddity in the class.

It wouldn't be her. She would keep a low profile and allow this so called teacher to draw the attention away from her.

"Alright well no need to fuss darling. We have a reading corner over there and you can go pick out a book to read until the class starts. Is that alright by you?"

Her vowels were drawn out far too long and Santana had lost interest in what she was saying until she mentioned the books. At that, she perked up slightly, nodding before wordlessly leaving her mother and making her way to the reading nook.

She eyed one of the bean bag chairs curiously but decided to sit in the very corner of the room, secluded and able to watch everything. Santana was disenchanted by the limited book selection available, so instead she sat in her corner and observed the mayhem in the classroom as helped her mom fill out some enrollment forms.

She watched the kids running and squealing, poking and prodding, pulling pigtails and spilling juice. Her curious eyes took everything in and she soon began to make up names for all the characters she observed.

There was the giant, a tall pale doughy boy whose rounded frame was made more obtuse by the puffy vest he wore. The barbies, the six or so blonde girls with matching lunch pails and ponytails and probably names as well. She looked around intently, searching for that one weird kid who always sat on their own, until she realized that for the moment, she was the weird outsider.

She may have been the only human with half a brain looking in at the zoo animals, but as animals they all fit in together.

Santana was so caught up in her precociousness that she didn't notice the mess of golden tangles hanging upside down to the right of her until it began to speak.

"You're new." The airy voice said, breaking Santana's trance and causing her to jump, spinning where she sat to face her.

"And you have spots on your face." She said back, one eyebrow raised as she met eyes with this bold and blonde stranger.

"They aren't spots silly! They're freckles!" The blonde girl said, a slight whistle sounding at the end of her words as the air blew through the gap between her two front teeth.

Santana couldn't help but let a soft smile spread across her face, the girl's energy was too strong to help but be affected by it. "Yeah well, you'll be seeing spots if you don't sit up right." She said teasingly, leaning forward and flicking the girl's nose. "What's your name?"

"Well today I'm Hazel. Yesterday I was Lily. I don't know about tomorrow."

"No, not a nickname, your real name."

"Yeah! Those are my names. My parents let me pick my name each day when I get up."

Santana cocked an eyebrow as crystal blue eyes darted around the room as if what she had just said made perfect and simple sense. "Okay… but what's your real name?" She asked hesitantly.

Her life, and that of her parents, was centered on structure and sense. Though she was still young enough to play make believe she rarely did because it simply did not make sense. Her childhood had been cut short by seriousness and a solid focus was the only way of presenting herself that she knew of.

"The name my parents gave me is Brittany Susan Pierce."

Brittany Susan Pierce. Brittany Susan Pierce was the whimsical whirlwind of a girl who hung upside down from chairs and had a gap between her teeth. Brittany Susan Pierce was the girl whose energy and excitement was seemingly endless. Brittany Susan Pierce.

"I'm Santana." She said shyly, not sure what to make of her first encounter with Brittany.

"Okay." Brittany smiled her gap tooth grin and flipped off of the chair, landing on her back beside Santana. "Come on. I want to sit at the yellow chair table." She said, grabbing Santana's hand and pulling her along with her as she darted across the classroom.

By the time numbers had been added, stories read, juice boxes emptied, finger paints splattered, and Santana's mother picked her up from school, she still didn't know what to make of the little blue eyed girl.

"Did you have fun at school today?" Her mother asked stiffly as they made their way home.

"Yeah I did." She replied softly, staring out the window at the rows of pastel houses, wondering which one her curious girl lived in. "I think I met a princess or something. She was really cool, and funny, and really nice even when other kids weren't. She had blonde hair and everything."

"Don't be silly Santana. There aren't princesses in Ohio."

"Yeah. You're right." Santana frowned softly as the irresistible optimism she had leeched off of Brittany was crushed before she could even test out the waters of childish silliness.

"I'm glad you made a friend though."

Her fingers picked at her fraying jeans as she thought about her friend, if that was even the right word. She decided to ask Brittany about it tomorrow.

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><p>"Are we friends? Or what?" Santana asked as she rocked gently back and forth on the swinger, her feet still firmly planted on the ground. Brittany wasn't so cautious and seemed to be daring the universe to injure her as she swung higher and higher. She let go and with a squeal of delight went soaring through the air, the comet trail of golden hair flowing behind her. The universe was kind to her and she wasn't injured no matter how hard she fell time and time again.<p>

"Of course we're friends. You shared your juice with me, and last week I helped you cut out that shape you were having trouble with." Brittany said simply as she skipped back to the swing set.

"So are we best friends then?" Santana turned her head away from the ant she was squishing with the toe of her sneaker and up to face Brittany.

"I don't know. I've never had a best friend before." She replied with a shrug as she once more began to challenge the laws of physics.

"What do you mean? Everyone likes you!"

"Yeah but think about it, if you're friends with everyone then really you don't have a best friend, you just have a lot of friends."

Santana frowned slightly and returned to terrorizing the ants. "Well uh maybe you could find something that only you and one other person did. That way it'd be your special thing and no one else would have it. Then you'd be best friends with that person."

"Oh. I didn't think about that. Okay then, well I like you so you're going to be my best friend." Brittany said brightly. "Here, pinky promise we'll be best friends." She said, holding out a tiny little finger for Santana to take.

Santana smiled and after a moment accepted, curling her little finger around Santana's. "Okay. Now you're my best friend, Britt-Britt." She said, experimenting with the nickname that she had practiced as she lay in bed the night before, staring up at the ceiling.

"Britt-Britt! I like it! And you can be Sanny!"

"No, not Sanny." Santana said firmly.

"San-San?"

"No."

"Tanny?"

"That's kind of rude."

"Oh yeah. Oops. Santa?"

"C'mon Britt now you're just being silly."

As Brittany continued to throw out name ideas, each one more ridiculous than the last, Santana decided that she had made a good choice in her only and best friend.

She wasn't even phased by Brittany's eccentricities anymore, she simply saw them as things that made her Brittany way more awesome than any of the other three blonde hair, blue eyed girls in the class. Santana stood out naturally. But among a flowerbed of Heathers, Poppies, and Susans, Brittany was the only one who truly bloomed.

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><p><strong>AN: **Reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated, and thanks to all who have already alerted or reviewed this story!


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